


Selective Faith

by Castastrophe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Suicidal Thoughts, but nothing too serious, from tumblr, idek, john just prays, probably inaccurate religious content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-19 09:24:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2383202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castastrophe/pseuds/Castastrophe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has never been a religious man, but in the most desperate of times, he finds solace in prayer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Selective Faith

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this on tumblr cause I was listening to a gospel song at like 3am and pining over johnlock, and then bam, this happened. I'm not even religious myself, but eh, I like faith overall.

John Watson had never been a religious man.

Through a childhood of boredom, through an angst riddled adolescence at high school, right until he’d enlisted as a grown man, Harry’s slap mark feeling permanently etched against his skin, he sought few answers, made few requests, and believed solely in his own merit.

The first time in his life that he’d dropped to his knees and prayed, desperation coursing through his blood as it burbled steadily from his shoulder, he’d sworn that he would change. The cross that his mother had insisted that he wear hung heavy around his neck, a pointed corner digging into his palm as he clutched it tightly, consciousness escaping him just as the other medics had arrived.

He’d survived, of course, and a part of him had known that he would - the bullet had hit no major arteries, medics weren’t too far, fire had begun to cease, plenty of cover for evac - but it hadn’t stopped the naked fear of the moment consuming him at the time.

He continued to pray.

Sent home, and seated in the darkness of his apartment, the persistent resonance of shellfire still echoing through his ears from the latest nightmare to wake him in a cold sweat, he prayed for purpose. He prayed for guidance, from the path of self destruction that his own hands itched to follow. He prayed, gun clasped between steepled hands, breath rasping through parted lips, desperation for life as evident as it had been on the battle front before.

He’d found Mike Stamford on a park bench the very next afternoon.

It was not unlikely, John had argued. Strange, but not unlikely. Mike had always spoken of London back at school, John had a tendency to linger near hospitals purely for nostalgia’s sake, it was lunch time, the weather was unusually pleasant… All factors towards their encounter.

Still, he continued to pray.

Then he met Sherlock.

His cane vanished, his confidence grew, his hand became steadier. Shadows that had crept around the edges of everything were slowly starting to disappear. He was back on the battlefield, constantly under fire, and if he just happened to have a similarly predisposed adrenaline junkie by his side, well, he wasn’t one for complaining much anyway.

For the first time, his prayer was said with a smile, desperation still skittering beneath the words that left his lips, in that he wanted, NEEDED this to stay constant. He knew better than most that chaos struck without warning, upturned and displaced with nary a care of consequence. His prayer held true.

Then there was Moriarty.

Wired to explosives, soft lighting bouncing in fractals off of the chlorinated surface beside him, a rippling effect similarly cast in his best friend’s eyes, John prayed again. He prayed not for his life, or even for forgiveness in the moments before what he was sure was his death, but he prayed that should they miraculously pull through, he’d never see that expression on Sherlock’s face again. He prayed that somehow this change in dynamic would be something he could recall for years to come. He prayed for courage in knowing that if he could just make it through, he may tell Sherlock the truth he’d been denying himself from the moment they’d met.

They survived, something that Sherlock was able to place into words, to describe, to explain, to simplify and clarify beyond ‘something as ridiculous as divine intervention, honestly John. Be realistic.’

Still, John continued to pray.

The dynamic had indeed shifted, that much was true. Lingering gazes, unnecessary touches provided by instinct and the sheer pull to be near - something John revelled in. Still, words remained unspoken, and the closest to a revelation they came was through telephone, Sherlock perched precariously on a ledge far higher than John’s churning stomach was even marginally comfortable with.

John prayed again.

Prayed that this was another trick, another puzzle, and that Sherlock would step back at any second. He prayed that Sherlock would acknowledge the nonsense spouting from his own mouth for the idiocy that it was, come down to John and let him finally soothe himself in his doctor’s arms.

John had no choice but to watch as Sherlock fell.

He stopped praying.

The gun began to shine of its own accord again, a beacon of resolution, of finality that he so desperately craved. The limp returned, the tremor resurfaced, the shadows closed in. He reached into his desk drawer, pulling out a familiar silver chain, the weight of the cross gargantuan in his grasp, before his palm turned and it toppled into the waste paper basket at his feet.

Harry came in to find him with the gun between fingers that could no longer pent, the gesture itself so sacrilegious that he dare not enact it again.

Therapy began anew, and a scoff fell unbidden from his lips when he was advised to perhaps seek comfort in faith.

It was desperation again that found his footsteps falling heavily and echoing against the otherwise silent cathedral walls. Before him, an altar, candles flickering in remembrance of the light that the departed once held in their own respects. Behind him, a hollow ache and the lack of a will to live that refused to subside. His cane clattered to the floor, and upon stiff knees he fell, a stuttered sob trapped in his throat.

For the first time in his life, he prayed aloud.

He prayed that his voice may carry further. He prayed that if there was one thing, just one, that could be done for him, return Sherlock home. To Baker Street. To John.

He prayed that he may be strong enough, wise enough, patient enough, deserving enough for Sherlock to still find solace in his presence when he got there.

He prayed for smart arse comments, poorly made tea, questionable chemical stains on the counter, articles missing from the morning paper. He prayed for Sherlock to know, God, just how much John loved him, and how much he had longed for, ached for that love in return.

"I do."

It was two words that sent a myriad of emotion through him, in such a familiar tone, that had his entire body stiff and glued to the floor. His delusions had become too much, he reasoned, because… No… That wasn’t how this worked. It wasn’t Sherlock standing just beside him. It wasn’t Sherlock’s form that John steadfastly refused to acknowledge.

Until there was a hand upon his shoulder and a softly spoken “John?” and it WAS.

John’s gaze drifted, his heart all but beating through his chest, his fists curling and unfurling as his eyes settled on a sight he’d longed for for days, weeks, months, he didn’t know.

"I do," Sherlock repeated, his voice a mere shadow of itself, as John fought for composure, for a hold on reality that would confirm what was unfolding before him. Angered, desperate, hurt filled words bubbled from his chest as he stood, as he took a swing, his fist connecting with cheekbones that he’d forever assumed could slice through steel. Sherlock had barely had time to stumble, before he was being reeled back in by his lapels, John’s mouth breathing life into the body before him that had previously stripped the oxygen from his lungs.

A pained sound escaped Sherlock’s mouth, and then he was kissing back, returning air, returning life to the shell that John had allowed himself to become. It was heated, filled with every word that they had never spoken, never shared as to what the other meant.

Within it all, desperation, raw and unrestrained. Amongst the cloud of emotion fogging John’s mind, he’d realised that for once, the desperation was not just his own.

He wondered then, if Sherlock had ever prayed too.


End file.
